


Close Encounters

by starsandgraces



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: AU, Alien Abduction, Bondage, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Present day AU. While investigating strange lights and noises coming from one of his fields, Jim Kirk ends up having the night of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/13264.html?thread=13188560#t13188560) prompt at [st_xi_kink_meme](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/). Beta'd by [withthepilot](http://withthepilot.livejournal.com/).

At first, Jim doesn't realise why he's awake. _A storm_ , his bleary mind concludes, and he rolls over and smushes his face into the pillow again. Five seconds later, it occurs to him that the flashes of light are too frequent to be lightning and the roaring sound he can hear doesn't seem to be wind and rain. Not only that, but the dogs are barking furiously. He checks the glowing clock beside his bed—just after midnight. He rolls out, cringing at the cold floor against his bare feet as he grabs the clothes he discarded a few hours before.

With his jeans half-buttoned up and his shirt hanging open, he takes the stairs three steps at a time. He hesitates for a moment before picking up the shotgun that sits by the back door. Jim doesn't like using the shotgun unless he really has to, but tonight seems like it might be one of those occasions. He pushes his feet into his boots and kicks open the door.

The dogs are still barking.

"This is private property," Jim yells in the direction of the lights and the noise. "I've got a gun, so you'd better clear out before I make you clear out." The noise stops abruptly but the lights remain, flashing up into the night sky, so he steels himself and marches towards the field, raising the gun to his shoulder. The dogs follow him, clearly glad that someone's arrived to take charge.

He pushes his way through the corn towards the source of the lights. The leaves whip against his bare chest uncomfortably but he doesn't slow down or stop to button his shirt. Part of Jim is almost frightened; the rest of him is annoyed that he's been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by what is undoubtedly some kids playing a prank. The lights get brighter and he readies himself to scare the shit out of them.

What Jim sees next scares the shit out of _him_.

There's something in the field. He doesn't know what it is yet, because it's so big that he can't see all of it, but it's silvery and round and if this is a prank, someone has gone to _way_ too much trouble here. He cautiously walks around the edge, trying to get a sense of how large the thing really is. The lights around its edges keeping flashing into his eyes and he can't see it properly. "God," he mutters, rapping the barrel of the shotgun against it. It makes a metallic clang and both dogs put their ears back and growl.

Something else clangs, only this time it sounds as if it's coming from inside the ship. Then there's a hissing sound and a door slides open, spilling more light out onto the field. Some kind of ramp slides down. Jim stumbles away from the ship as if it's on fire and almost trips over one of the dogs, who yelps and snaps at him as he falls. They bolt, but Jim doesn't think he could move even if he tried. His legs feel like they're encased in concrete.

 _This can't be happening_ , he thinks. _This is unreal_. He manages to lift the shotgun towards the opening in the side of the—thing. "Is it a spaceship?" he says to himself.

A figure appears, silhouetted by the light. It looks tall, but human. Jim's finger twitches towards the trigger, ready to pull it the moment he thinks he needs to. The figure raises one hand, making some sort of strange gesture. He exhales through his nose and aims more carefully.

"Please lower your weapon," says the person—man—alien?—standing there. "I have no intention of causing you harm."

"What the fuck?" Jim says, but he does point the shotgun at the ground instead of the—whatever.

"I am unfamiliar with the term. Are you human?"

"What else would I be?" he mutters. "Yeah, I'm human. What the hell are you?"

There's too much shadow to see if the alien-man on the ship makes any kind of facial expression at that. "Can you stand?" he asks, without answering the question. "It would be easier for us both if you are capable of entering my ship unaided."

Jim moves shakily to his feet, dropping the gun to the ground as he does so. He's not sure why he does either; he doesn't particularly want to do what the alien-man wants him to do, and if he has to do it, the last thing he wants is to do it unarmed. He takes one step towards the ramp that extends from the door, then another. It feels mechanical, as if he's being compelled by some outside force.

"What are you?" he asks again as he steps onto the ramp.

"I will explain it to you shortly. Now, please. There is little time to spare."

"Why?" He squints at the brightness of the light inside the ship. It hurts his eyes for a moment and makes it impossible to look at the alien-man. The door makes the same hissing noise and the ramp slides back up inside as it closes behind Jim. He feels a hand wrap around his upper arm and tug gently, leading him somewhere. The luminosity of the walls never wavers but he can't seem to adjust to it. It makes their rapid journey through the halls more nerve-wracking than if he could see where they were going. "Where are you taking me?"

"We must prepare for liftoff."

Then the alien-man is gone and he's left alone in a room still far too bright for his eyes.

Jim doesn't know how long he's in the room by himself—it could be minutes or it could be hours. Not long after the alien-man leaves him there, he feels faint movement and that odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that indicates speed, but after that, there's nothing but the light. His eyes do adjust eventually, and he finds the glowing walls more lucent than blinding now he's used to them. It's almost like mood lighting. If he wasn't basically imprisoned, Jim could probably enjoy this.

Some time later, a door he can barely see opens and the alien-man is standing on the other side. "We are at warp," he says, which Jim doesn't really understand, but he pretty much has to assume it's a good thing. "You are free to leave this room."

Jim scrambles to his feet. Now he can see again, he gets a good look at him. The alien-man is tall and slim and could almost pass as human if it not for his pale skin—which seems to have a greenish cast to it—and his pointed ears. He has dark hair and wears a fitted grey uniform that doesn't appear to be made of any fabric Jim's ever seen before. In a way, he's actually kind of attractive.

"So, is this an alien abduction?" Jim asks, half because he really wants to know and half because he wants to stop thinking about attractive alien kidnappers. "Because I've never done this before and I don't want to get it wrong or anything."

"Abduction?" He quirks an eyebrow. "You entered my vessel willingly."

"No, I felt this compulsion. You were doing that, weren't you? Freaky telepathic mind powers, right?"

"I have no such capabilities. When you walked up the ramp, you did so entirely of your own accord. Your clothing is very interesting," he says abruptly, his gaze lingering on Jim's chest. "What is its significance?"

Jim looks down at his open shirt and half-buttoned jeans, pulling the material across himself defensively. He suddenly feels awkward, half-dressed in front of this person in his sharp grey uniform. The intensity of his gaze makes Jim feel wholly undressed and not a little aroused, and he suppresses a shiver. "I didn't have time to finish getting dressed."

"Fascinating," the alien-man says. "Do you have a name?"

"Do you?" he asks, still feeling uncomfortable.

"You may call me Spock."

"I'm Jim. You said you'd tell me what you are."

"I am a Vulcan," Spock says. "I have travelled a great distance to study your species. I was fortunate to find a willing subject with such ease; the odds of such a thing occurring were extremely small."

Jim is pretty sure that's a direct jab at him. "I still say you were doing some crazy mind voodoo on me. Wait, study? What kind of studying?"

"Though our species may appear superficially similar, I believe there are a number of anatomical differences between us. The comparison would be quite fascinating." Spock takes a step back from the doorway. "Please. There is much to do and our time is limited."

"What if I don't want to be studied?" He buttons his fly and his shirt before stepping out of the room.

"I assure you, it is quite painless. As I said to you previously, I have no intention of causing you harm. You will be returned safely to your home before the night has ended."

"I've already been here hours," Jim points out. He sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye at Spock as they walk along the corridors. He doesn't seem to have facial expressions.

"Nevertheless, I will return you before dawn."

"Are you the only one here?"

"I am the only Vulcan aboard this vessel. However, there are other Vulcan scientists in other research ships in the vicinity of your planet. This is the main control room," he says as they pass through another door.

The room they've entered isn't as big as Jim would have imagined a main control room being, but it's full of metal and glass, gleaming and glinting every time Jim moves his head. In conjunction with the glowing walls that seem to come as standard across the whole ship, the entire effect is a bit overwhelming. Looking across the room, he spots some kind of window, and the view outside seems to match up with the kind of thing Jim would expect to see from a flying saucer speeding through space. Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits him and he needs to sit down.

"Does this thing have chairs?" he asks. He hasn't seen a single one since entering the ship and the floor isn't as comfortable as it could be.

"We can leave the room if you are unnerved. I see how you would find it overstimulating."

"I'm not any kind of stimulated; it's just making my head hurt," Jim says defensively. He thinks he might be blushing. "The lights are very hot, I'm probably—little bit overheated."

"Understood." Spock takes him by the arm again and steers him out of the room. "Do you wish to imbibe a beverage? Water, perhaps?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. My mom always told me not to take things from strangers," he says. After a moment, he adds, "Especially alien strangers who talk like they swallowed the thesaurus."

"Fascinating," Spock says for the second time. It seems slightly sarcastic this time.

They visit a number of rooms, each more uninteresting than the last. Some are empty like the one Jim was left in to begin with. Others have things inside that he doesn't recognise. One is definitely a kitchen, but there's no sign of any food in it. He can't even see any cupboard, though he supposes they must be there behind the walls, in the same way that he can't really see most of the doors before they open. All the while, Spock keeps his hand tight around Jim's arm.

The next room he takes Jim into is even less appealing than the first—only this time, the door slides shut behind them and it seems like he won't be able to get away as easily. The room is lined with polished metal and glass cabinets, filled to the brim with what appears to be medical equipment. A table stands in the centre. It's about six and a half feet long, hip-high and almost completely bare. Jim gets a sinking feeling in his stomach when he sees the only things that adorn the surface: four restraints at each corner.

He looks at Spock, whose grip on his elbow hasn't slackened in the slightest. "Uh," he says eloquently. "Are you going to probe me?"

"I suppose the procedure could be described as such," Spock says. "Will you remove your clothing?"

"You're going to _probe me_." Jim doesn't fully remember what probing entails, but he's fairly sure it's supposed to be unpleasant. There is a tiny part of him that thinks if Spock had just asked nicely, he'd be more than willing to go along with it. He pushes that thought down before it has any visible effect.

"I only wish to examine the differences between our species. You will be bettering the knowledge of an entire race."

"I don't think I want to better anyone's knowledge. Probing is something that makes you bleed, right?" He thinks he remembers that.

"I will indeed take a blood sample but I assure you, I will heal you again immediately," he says. "It will cause no permanent damage to you, nor will any other part of the procedure."

"That implies there'll be temporary damage!"

"Please, Jim."

Spock saying his name—the _way_ Spock says his name, all grave and slightly pleading—makes Jim shiver again and he tries to wrench his arm from Spock's grip, suddenly convinced that he's in over his head and really, getting on the ship in the first place was a stupid idea. With a regretful look, Spock raises his hand from Jim's arm to the crook of his neck. There's a faint pressure there and then nothing but blackness.

When he wakes up, the first thing Jim notices is the sensation of cool metal pressed against his back. Then he notices he's completely naked and bound to the table in the middle of the room, arms above his head and legs splayed apart. There's enough give in the restraints to lift himself slightly, but not enough to escape. Jim spends a while trying just to be especially sure of that. If he cranes his head to the left, he can see his shirt and jeans in a neat pile on the floor, with his boots sitting next to them. There's nothing of interest to the right.

As far as he can tell, he's alone. He's not sure if that's better or worse than being probed.

Jim opens his mouth to call out for Spock, then immediately thinks better of it. The longer he's alone, the more chance he has of getting free and putting his clothes back on. The room isn't at all cold but his nudity makes him feel more vulFnerable than he otherwise would. Unfortunately, the restraints seem even less inclined to cooperate now than they had before; they shorten slowly and hold him closer to the table. Jim immediately stops struggling and closes his eyes instead.

They're still closed when the door opens and he hears soft footsteps entering the room. "Spock?" he asks.

"I see you have woken, Jim. I apologise for having to take the steps I did, but it appeared to be necessary."

He opens his eyes reluctantly. Spock stands next to him at the head of the table and looks down. "How about you untie me?" Jim asks.

"I cannot yet. You will be comfortable during the procedure this way," he says.

"I'm not comfortable now."

"Jim, you must trust me. If you do, this will be easier for us both." Spock steps away from the table and retrieves a tray containing a variety of medical instruments. Jim doesn't want to think about the kind of things they must be used for. Most of them look like mediaeval torture devices. Spock sets the tray down on a second, smaller table that sits next to the first and picks up one of the instruments. It's the least torturous-looking of the bunch. "I would like to ask you some questions."

"I'm a captive audience," Jim says drily.

"Indeed," Spock replies. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven," he says.

"And in human terms, to which stage of your lifespan would you consider that age to belong?"

"I don't really—"

"Are you an adolescent?" he asks. "A young adult?"

"Um, adult, yes. I'm not that young."

"Good. I may have some more questions shortly." He seems satisfied, though Jim still can't tell if he has any real expression on his face. Spock switches the instrument to his left hand and picks up another. The second one looks _evil_ , all glass and stainless steel and a very, very long needle. "If you can open your mouth and relax your jaw, please, this will be much easier."

Suddenly, Jim is living every nightmare he's ever had about visiting the dentist, with the added bonus of the nudity from his high school anxiety dreams. He opens his mouth and braces himself.

Spock inserts the needle into his mouth and to Jim's great surprise, he doesn't feel anything. There isn't even any kind of pressure. He holds his head as still as he can just in case. With no sensation, he can't tell what the needle is doing inside his mouth and—for all he knows—it could be pushed up through his soft palate and into his brain. The thought makes him gag, though luckily it's just after Spock has removed the instrument.

"What did that do?" Jim croaks, his voice harsh with fear.

"I was merely taking a DNA swab from the inside of your cheek."

"With a giant fuck-off _needle_?"

Spock examines the instrument in his hand in surprise. "I suppose it does appear that way," he says placidly. He places the needle back on the tray and picks up something else. "I will use this to extract a blood sample from your arm," he tells Jim. "It will be entirely painless."

It isn't, but it's so brief that Jim doesn't say anything about the twinge of pain. After that, Spock tells him about each instrument before he uses it, explaining what he's about to do and reassuring Jim that it won't hurt him.

It's not _very_ reassuring, but he's right; none of the rest of it does hurt, though Jim has never felt so thoroughly examined in his entire life. By the time Spock is finished with him, it feels like every visible inch of his body has been poked, prodded or—yes— _probed_ , with a few notable exceptions. And that's when it turns out that Spock _isn't_ finished with him.

"My examination is almost complete," he says, replacing the latest tool. "I will return you shortly."

"Good. It's been fun, but..." He trails off meaningfully.

"You are a male, are you not?" Spock asks suddenly. He rests one hand on Jim's hip lightly, then removes it again.

Jim had almost forgotten the exact way he was splayed and bound to the table right up until Spock said that. "Yes," he says, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks. There's no pretending he isn't blushing this time. "Why?"

"Your anatomy is not so different from that of a male Vulcan." His gaze slides over Jim's body, undoubtedly taking in everything. "It is clearly a most efficient form for reproduction. I assume you are fertile?"

"Well, I do my best not to find out," Jim manages to say. His traitorous cock, which was lying flaccid against his thigh up until about three seconds ago, starts to stiffen slowly beneath Spock's intense scrutiny.

"Of course. The speed with which you react is—intriguing." Spock leans down so low he's almost eye-level with Jim's burgeoning erection. He straightens abruptly and touches the underside of it with one cool, clinical finger. "You are scarred here," he says, tracing his circumcision scar with a fingertip.

Jim whines faintly before he manages to control himself, sucking in a deep breath. "It's—I'm circumcised."

"It was intentional?" He strokes the scar again and this time Jim whimpers, trying to push against Spock's fingers. "Does it cause you any discomfort? Is there any lack of sensation?"

He shakes his head and bites his lip, not trusting himself to answer. Spock is showing no signs of wanting to stop touching his dick, and even though every touch is the very model of professional detachment, Jim is growing more aroused by the second. He lifts his hips again but Spock somehow anticipates the movement, moving his hand at the same time so the pressure is neither increased nor decreased. It's _maddening_ but it only makes Jim's erection worse.

"What is the purpose behind it?"

"I _really_ couldn't tell you right now."

Spock makes a small, thoughtful noise and withdraws his hand. Even though he was barely touching him, Jim feels the loss keenly. He tugs at the restraints, wishing desperately that he could get free and do _something_ about his cock. Even turning over so he could rub against the table would be welcome at this point, even if humping metal isn't normally Jim's idea of a good time.

In his preoccupation with his dick, Jim's taken his eyes off of Spock. He doesn't realise Spock has chosen something else from the tray of equipment sitting next to the table until he sees a flash of silver in Spock's hand, which disappears out of view quickly—between Jim's spread thighs. Whatever it is, it's cool and slick as Spock draws a line down the sensitive skin of Jim's inner thigh with the tip of it. If he could move his legs further apart, he would, but as it is, all he does is make the restraints tighten further, locking him into position on the table.

"Remain calm," Spock says in a low voice.

Jim barely notices that this time, there is no "please". The instrument in his hand moves higher and higher up Jim's leg until it slides over his entrance then moves on, nudging against his perineum. He chews at the inside of his lip, trying to push down onto it without making the straps get even tighter.

"God," he says in a strangled voice when Spock moves it back down and cautiously begins to press it inside Jim, stretching and spreading him open carefully. The thing inside him is slim and still cool, but it's rapidly heating up to match his body temperature. As it does so, it almost feels like it's starting to hum inside him; a buzzing vibration that doesn't quite feel real, but definitely feels _good_. His thighs tremble with the effort of keeping still.

"It creates an electrical bond to stimulate the nerve endings," Spock says in a conversational manner, pushing it deeper. It's as if he knows exactly what Jim is thinking and what he wants without Jim having to say a word.

Jim's dick is achingly hard and heavy against his stomach. When Spock angles the instrument suddenly, rubbing it across Jim's prostate with every thrust of his hand, he thinks for a moment that he's come—but it's just pre-come, rolling aggravatingly down the head of Jim's cock and slicking across his belly with every slight movement his hips manage.

"Oh, god, _fuck_ ," he gasps, and then Spock does. He begins fucking Jim in earnest, hard and fast and it's never, _never_ felt so good before. If he didn't know better, he'd swear whatever Spock's using on him is growing in size inside him, not in length but in girth. It feels thicker with every thrust—but that's impossible, surely—and the pleasure is building so fast he doesn't know what to do with himself. He tries to slow it down by thinking about something else and taking deep breaths through his nose, but it's not working.

"Do you require additional stimulation?" Spock asks. He sounds slightly breathless as well, probably from the effort of fucking Jim so soundly. When Jim makes a choked, wanting noise, he reaches up to slide the palm of his free hand along Jim's dick, then presses down. Instead of moving his hand, he lets Jim thrust against it, building up the friction between Spock's hand and his belly.

He's never felt anything like it and when he finally comes, it's with a hoarse shout and so hard that he almost can't breathe for a moment afterwards. As soon as it's possible for him to use his brain again, Jim thinks for a fraction of a second that he might black out, or maybe even _die_ just from feeling so good. He's vaguely aware of Spock's hand lifting away, the restraints slackening and the instrument being withdrawn from inside him, but it's not with any conscious part of his mind.

"Jim," Spock says, sounding like he's a very long way away. At the same time, he sounds almost needy. Jim mutters something in reply that probably isn't really English and Spock's fingers stroke his cheek lightly. "Are you able to continue?"

He manages to lift himself onto his elbows and gives Spock a sort of lopsided leer. It's probably not very sexy but it apparently gets his point across, because Spock grips his thighs and pulls him down to the end of the table. Jim reaches between his legs and fumbles with the front of his uniform, but he can't find anything to unfasten. He _can_ find a fairly impressive bulge, though it's not as gratifying when he can't get at it, until Spock does something and the fabric parts.

There's no time for Jim to familiarise himself with Spock's dick before he finds himself being manhandled into position; with both legs over Spock's shoulders, he's spread open and ready without having to do anything himself. When Spock slides inside him, it immediately feels—well, it feels alien. But in a very, very good way. Jim moans and reaches for him, mouthing over his jaw and rocking his hips to push Spock deeper.

He curls his fingers in Spock's uniform, pulling at it. "Harder," he says, hoping to end this period of coherency. When Spock seems to hesitate, he takes a gamble and licks up the side of Spock's ear to the pointed tip. Spock actually _growls_ and digs his fingertips into the sensitive flesh at the small of Jim's back, tugging him down onto his cock. Jim gasps in a combination of surprise and pleasure, and then he does it again, aiming for the same reaction a second time from Spock.

Spock's thrusts are fluid and steady, hitting the right angle every time. He's obviously a quick learner. At first, Jim makes the effort to be involved, but the longer it goes on, the happier he is to metaphorically sit back and let Spock do whatever he wants. Everything he does feels amazing, and he has everything under control as far as Jim can tell, as he floats away on a tide of sensation. Spock raises two fingers to Jim's mouth, brushing them over the seam of his lips. Jim flicks his tongue out and then sucks the two fingers into his mouth, watching for a reaction.

He gets one. With a faint noise, Spock shudders and thrusts into him with nothing resembling a rhythm until, moments later, he comes. And then _Jim_ comes, and he doesn't even really know why he's coming but something about Spock's orgasm has ripped his own out of him, even more intense than the last.

When he comes to himself, Spock is staring at him. His previously neat hair is dishevelled and Jim—somewhat irrationally—wants to run his fingers through it and keep it that way.

"Was it good for you, baby?" Jim says, deadpan.

"Yes, I—I will return," Spock says, apparently flustered. Jim _loves_ that. "You may dress if you wish." He exits the room quickly, leaving Jim alone on the table.

He stretches his legs out in front of him, feeling deliciously shaky as he slides down onto the floor and goes to pick up his clothes. As he dresses, Jim notices that the restraints haven't left any marks on his wrists or ankles. In fact, there's no outward physical sign that anything has happened at all. He's almost disappointed. He wants to remember this.

Spock returns a few minutes later. He's as neat and professional-looking as he was the first moment Jim saw him. "We are almost back at your home," he says. "Are you prepared to return?"

"I guess," Jim says. "I mean. Do you do this a lot?"

"Do you mean to ask if I research humans first-hand on a regular basis?"

"If that's what you want to call it."

"No; not often at all," Spock says. "You are very much an exception."

"Good to know," he says. He really means it.

The ship sets down in the same field as before. Jim suspects it's probably in exactly the same place as it was before as well, given the level of organisation Spock seems to aspire to. Once they're safely on the ground, Spock leads Jim back through the ship and opens the door to the outside world for him.

"So, this is it," Jim says, looking out into the field before he turns back to look at him.

"Indeed," Spock replies serenely. "You have been extremely useful to my research. I'm grateful to you for your assistance."

"You're welcome," he says, walking backwards down the ramp and never once taking his eyes off Spock. "Glad I could help."

"Goodbye, Jim Kirk."

He starts to say goodbye, then stops again. "Wait, I never—I never told you my surname. What the hell?"

Spock smiles for the first time since they met and steps back inside. The door slides shut behind him and there's a brief moment before the lights and the noises begin again. He watches in bleary amazement as Spock and his ship disappear back into the night sky. Jim somehow has the presence of mind to pick up his gun before he stumbles back up to the house. He undresses again and flops onto the bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Upon waking the next morning, Jim has nearly forgotten the events of the night before. He stares at the ceiling for a while, wondering if it was all a dream brought on by too much cheese before bedtime—not that he makes a habit of eating cheese before bedtime. But when he moves to get out of bed and feels the burn of overtaxed, underused muscles in his thighs, he knows it was all real—and he has something to remember the night by after all. He goes about his usual morning routine in a daze, feeding the dogs, showering, eating his own breakfast like he's sleepwalking. He cuts himself twice shaving and almost falls down the stairs.

He's tinkering with an old tractor he picked up cheap—something that doesn't require a great deal of conscious thought—when he hears a car coming along the road. The dogs aren't barking so it must be someone they know. Jim drops his wrench with the rest of his tools and wipes his hands on his jeans, going out to find out who the visitor is. It's the local sheriff's deputy, Hikaru Sulu. They went through high school together and Jim's usually happy to see him, though today he was enjoying the alone time.

"Morning, Jim," Hikaru calls, getting out of his car.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Jim calls back.

"We got a report of something odd in one of your fields. A crop circle, if you can believe that."

"I haven't been out to the fields today," he says. "Who reported it?"

"Some out-of-towner. Said he and his girlfriend were driving past this morning and couldn't believe their eyes when they spotted it. I've been by to see," he adds. "It looks pretty crazy. Do you want to walk down and take a look?"

"Sure, I'm not busy."

They walk down to the field and sure enough, the corn there is marred by a huge series of concentric and overlapping circles in various sizes. Jim knows he should be upset about the damage to his cornfield, but somehow he can't bring himself to care. They stand silently by the gate for a long while, taking in the sight before them. Jim runs one hand through his hair and exhales.

"Would you look at that," he says, half to himself.

"You got any ideas?" Hikaru asks.

Jim shifts his weight from one leg to the other, enjoying the stretch of sore muscles. "Must have been kids playing a prank," he says with a shrug.


End file.
